


no smoke without you, my fire

by redbrunja



Series: we russians have nothing but our winter [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Insomnia, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2016-04-16
Packaged: 2018-06-02 13:26:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6568120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redbrunja/pseuds/redbrunja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Late at night in Zurich, Gaby thinks about what she has left to lose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	no smoke without you, my fire

Gaby was curled up in an arm chair, watching sleet strike the hotel's windows.

 

It was 4:23 a.m.

 

She took a sip of bourbon, checked the clock again.

 

4:25 a.m.

 

It was going to be a long night.

 

Gaby had known a lot of long nights in her life. In the bed, Illya frowned in his sleep, shifted under the covers.

 

Another time, she would have jumped onto the bed, woken Illya up and demanded he entertain her. Or gone and knocked on Solo's door. He was usually game for late-night excursions of one kind or another. A week ago, in Morocco, they'd broken into the closed hotel bar and played billiards until five a.m., when the staff had arrived to start setting up breakfast service.

 

Or she could practice her Russian, paint her toenails, pace the floor. Gaby had a long list of ways to kill time in the early morning hours, when sleep was impossible.

 

Tonight, she was just stewing in the dark.

 

She, Illya, and Napoleon were in Zurich to track down Nazi gold, jewels, and currency that had been traveling from Switzerland to South America. Gaby was pretending to be a good German girl, and Herr Krause, an old-guard German ex-pat, had swallowed her 'lonely, fragile little bird' act whole.

 

He'd already given her the names of several nazi-friendly money-launders. Tomorrow she was joining him for a business dinner with some "investors from abroad" whom Solo and Kuryakin were certain were high-level fascists traveling in from South America to oversee their interests in person.

 

The mission was going precisely as planned.

 

There was no reason for Gaby to be awake, chewing at her lips and pondering the curious fact that she was a orphan twice over.

 

It hadn't even been a year since Victoria had shot her father-by-blood but he'd been dead to her since she was twelve, and alone in war-ravaged Germany.

Her foster father had suffered a heart-attack under a Wartburg. He'd died before the ambulance arrived and the next morning, after a night of sobbing herself sick, Gaby had crawled under the car with aching eyes and finished the repairs.

 

She had had two mothers as well, but they blurred into vague memories of a maternal figure with worry lines around her eyes. Her birth mother had drowned - sleeping pills and a hot bath and she hadn't seen anything but the maids had whispered about whether it was really an accident. Her foster mother had gotten thinner and thinner and finally checked into the hospital and never returned home.

 

The sleet hissed pitilessly against the glass.

 

Gaby leaned her head back against her armchair. She no longer had any familial ties.

 

That was her story for Herr Krause. She was just a girl alone in the world, and even though she wasn't using her real name, this particular cover story had dug its way under her skin. And it didn't matter that Illya was four meters away and Napoleon was two floors below her. She wasn't going to get to keep them. She wondered if it was going to be a mission gone wrong or their superiors that would take them away from her, but sooner or later, they'd vanish from her life, just like every other person she'd ever–

 

Illya swept his hand across the bed, across the sheets she'd slipped out of hours ago.

 

He pushed himself up, eyes searching the room before he realized where she was. She wondered what he thought, to wake and see her curled up in an arm chair. She wore one of his button-up shirts as a pajama top. Her legs were bare and her hair was falling out of its braid.

 

"Gaby," he said. His voice was rough with sleep, authoritative, "come to bed."

 

Gaby felt something tighten low in her belly.

 

She swallowed the last of her bourbon, obeyed. She crawled back into the bed. Illya reached for her hands, made a disapproving sound when he touched them.

 

"You're cold," he said.

 

"Only a little," Gaby said.

 

He pulled the counterpane off the bed and wrapped it around her shoulders. Then he gently chafed her hands between his, bent his head and exhaled onto them. Gaby curled her fingers, like she could catch the heat of his breath.

 

He shifted further down the bed, reached for her feet. He made a grumbling sound when he touched her toes, a noise deep in his chest that she felt more than heard.

 

He rubbed warmth into her feet, leaning down to blow warm air across her toes.

 

The blue, flickering light from the windows bleached all color from him. His skin looked like it was carved from marble, his hair, falling across his forehead, was palest gold. It made the heat of his body seem shocking. Illya curled his hands around her ankles, tugged her further down the bed. When her head rested on the pillow, he tucked her feet under the rumpled covers, kneeling between her bare legs.

 

Oh.

 

That would warm her up nicely.

 

She sighed as Illya slid his large hands gently along her thighs, pressing them open. He was so, so careful when he pulled her knickers aside, bent his head and licked into her.

 

She wasn't wet, not enough, not yet, and first Illya just licked, long strokes of his tongue, tracing each fold of her, slow and sure. After a time, he added two fingers, sinking them into her cunt in an easy motion, just pressure and width. She heard herself give a little cry, lifting her hips up.

 

Illya spread his other hand across her belly, keeping her pressed to the bed. He fucked her slow and steady with his fingers, sliding in and out, in and out. He delicately circled her clit with the tip of his tongue, sucked gently.

 

The coldest Gaby had ever been in her life had been during a mission in Finland last December. It was dark by the middle of the afternoon, snow coating everything and the cold like knives. The mission plan - like so many of their mission plans– had required dramatic improvisation. She and Illya went on an unexpected cross-country hike, stolen blue prints folded and tucked into her brassiere and her teeth clenched tight to keep them from chattering.

 

She remembered Illya making a fire, the motions of his fingers as he coaxed heat and light into existence in the middle of a cold, silent forest.

 

Spread out on a hotel bed in Zurich, Gaby felt exactly like that, like smokeless flames and flickering heat. Her orgasm was a slow, deep thing, pleasure that had her rolling her hips against Illya's mouth, small sounds of pleasure falling from her lips.

 

After, Illya crawled up the bed, his hair tousled and his mouth wet. He pulled the covers over them both, tucked himself around her. She could feel the hot line of his erection against her.

 

She let herself press against his body, so strong and reassuring. She nuzzled her nose across his chest, inhaling the scent of his skin before she leaned back, reaching for him.

 

"Shhh," he said.

 

He'd given her pleasure and comfort and she should reciprocate, she wanted to. She would, only Illya was murmuring soothing Russian phrases into the top of her head. He stayed as he was, his arms snug around her. He didn't seem to be in any hurry to find his own pleasure.

 

It was nice, to just lie still, Illya wonderfully solid against her, his legs tangled with hers. It was easy to close her eyes and imagine that she'd get to keep this, keep him.


End file.
